


The Weirdo on Baker Street

by LooneyLela



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Stranger Things - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stranger Things Fusion, Clueless Eleven | Jane Hopper, Crossover, Cute Eleven | Jane Hopper, Dustin Henderson is a Good Friend, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Eventual Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler, For ST, Gen, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, Modern AU, Modern ST, Post-Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Parents, Sherlock and Stranger Things, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Tags Are Hard, and so on - Freeform, eventually, hopefully this will be a series?, idk i just wrote this for fun, in his own way, kind of, they do their best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooneyLela/pseuds/LooneyLela
Summary: Sherlock listened carefully as he heard footsteps rushing upstairs towards the entrance to the flat. He knew they belonged to his flatmate, but they seemed heavier than usual, implying he was carrying something. But he hadn't been gone long enough to have gotten a great deal of things at the store. Curious, he stood up from the couch and stepped on and over the coffee table, rushing to the door and opening it...To find John Watson carrying a barely conscious child."Well..." Sherlock began, taking a step aside to let the pair inside and staring at the child. "I take it you didn't go to the store, then."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I've had this crossover idea for a while now, and I originally posted the first version of it on fanfiction.net. Buuuuut I wasn't happy with that one, because I rushed it, so I'm redoing it here! Hope ya'll like it! :)

Get away. Get far away.  
Those were the words that a girl known by a subject number rather than a name kept silently repeating to herself. The words she'd been thinking over and over again for the past few weeks. She wasn't quite sure just how many days she'd been on the run; time hadn't really mattered to her very much lately. All she was concerned with was distancing herself from the nightmare that she'd had to call home all her life.  
She'd think of the place to force her tired legs to keep going. She'd think of her "papa", of the other scientists and doctors who saw her as nothing more than a strange object to experiment on.  
A few of those scientists were dead now. She'd had no choice but to kill them. It was the only thing she could do to escape.  
While her previous living situation was awful, to say the least, her freedom was quite scary as well. Back at the laboratory, she at least knew what to expect most of the time. It was the only world she had known. But now that she was out... There was so much. So many new things to see, so many people. She was filled with a feeling of joy and terrifying uncertainty.  
And this feeling intensified as she found herself roaming the streets of a city. The child had never been around so many people at once; she even saw some who appeared to be around her age, or younger.  
She'd never been around such tall buildings, either; and she'd never seen this many vehicles. Her heart was pounding quickly, and she was so focused on staring up in wonder that she didn't notice, for a little while, the strange looks she kept receiving from passers-by. And when she did notice, she took a glance at her reflection in a shop window and realized why. She was filthy; she was only wearing the much-too-big T-shirt that a kind man had given her early on in her journey. She wasn't even wearing any shoes, and she had a few cuts and scrapes on her feet and legs. Nobody else here looked like that. Everyone was clean, and wearing clothes that fit.  
"Young man? Are you alright?" an older woman asked, stopping on the sidewalk and looking at the child with concern. The girl wasn't offended by the woman's mistake; she was used to being mistaken for a boy.  
What bothered her was whether or not this lady could be trusted. What if she called to report her and the bad men came? What if she was working with the bad men?  
She couldn't bring herself to answer verbally; instead, she simply nodded once and speed-walked away, searching around for somewhere else to go. Somewhere away from the staring, away from the noise. It was all too overwhelming; she needed a moment to recover.  
Soon, she found herself in an alleyway. It wasn't very comfortable, and she could still hear the sounds of the city, but at least she was out of sight for a bit as she sat down beside a dumpster, not caring about how dirty the ground was. She leaned back against the chilly wall and sighed. Her stomach ached with hunger, but she figured she could find some food later; right now she couldn't go back out there. She didn't want to have any more attention...  
But someone had seen her go into the alleyway.

 

Whining about boredom. Using his flatmate's laptop without permission. Putting various body parts in the fridge in place of food. These were just a few things that John Watson was having to deal with from the consulting detective whom he shared a flat with, and he desperately needed a break from it.  
So, he decided to take a walk to the store and hope that Sherlock Holmes didn't blow up their flat while he was away.  
It was late in the afternoon. It was chilly out, but not any more so than usual. The man made his way down the sidewalk, briefly considering taking a cab to the store but deciding to go with his original plan of walking. The more time he spent out here the better.  
But he didn't get very far when he heard a commotion coming from an alleyway.  
He went to go investigate, but his pace quickened when he heard a child's voice. It sounded like a grown man was trying to hurt a child, and John was going to make him regret that...  
Or that was the plan, until the man was thrown out of the alley before John could reach it. Thrown rather far, in fact. He landed on his back in the road, almost getting hit by a car that managed to come to a stop just in time. John's eyes widened, and he was even more shocked when he looked in the alley.  
There was no tall, strong-looking person in there who could have defended the kid like that.  
There was only the child. A thin, dirty child who looked as though they hadn't eaten or bathed in days. A child who had a death glare directed past John and towards their attacker. A stream of blood began to drip from his or her nose.  
"Are... Are you alright?" John asked, deciding that someone else could deal with the man; he may be hurt, but he deserved it. The kid's expression softened as it landed on John...

  
"Why must London be so agonizingly boring?" Sherlock Holmes muttered as he sat on the couch, staring up at the skull he kept on the mantel. He usually used it as someone to vent his complaints or thoughts to whenever John was away; whenever he was aware that John was away, that is.  
"Criminals are dumbing down, it seems..." the detective sighed.  
But his attention shifted when he heard a sound.  
Sherlock listened carefully as he heard footsteps rushing upstairs towards the entrance to the flat. He knew they belonged to his flatmate, but they seemed heavier than usual, implying he was carrying something. But he hadn't been gone long enough to have gotten a great deal of things at the store. Curious, he stood up from the couch and stepped on and over the coffee table, rushing to the door and opening it...  
To find John Watson carrying a barely conscious child.  
"Well..." Sherlock began, taking a step aside to let the pair inside and staring at the child. "I take it you didn't go to the store, then."

 

As she woke up, she immediately felt tense. Where was she? How had she gotten here? The girl slowly began to relax slightly as her memories flooded back into her mind; she had been attacked by a man claiming he wanted to help her, and then she used her power to get him away from her. Then a nice man asked if she was okay and then she blacked out, only waking up a little later. She remembered seeing another man, one taller than the one who was carrying her, but her vision had been blurry and she'd blacked out again shortly after seeing him.  
Now she found herself lying on a couch in an unfamiliar room. It was warm in here, and it had been quite a while since she'd laid on something other than a bench or the ground.  
Her eyes wandered the room, and she jolted a bit when they landed on a man who was sitting in a chair across from the couch. It was the taller man from before, only she could clearly see him now. He was staring at her curiously, with a serious expression, his hands in a steeple beneath his chin.  
"Ah, good, you're awake."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John become acquainted with their new guest.

Before the child regained consciousness, John had laid her down on the couch, placing a cold, wet rag on her forehead.  
"You're never gonna believe what I just saw..." he said, sounding a bit shaken up, both from what he'd witnessed and from the fact that there was a child who was hurt.  
"Try me," Sherlock answered. John glanced back at the girl after propping her head up on a pillow before walking over to Sherlock.  
"I heard a commotion in an alleyway, and I saw a man who was..." John paused. "I'm not sure what his intentions were, but he was attacking this girl. I started to go over to help but before I could he just... Got thrown out of the alley."  
Sherlock raised a brow.  
"He landed almost all the way across the road," John continued. "I figured that, y'know, someone else showed up and somehow managed to take the bastard out but... I looked and no one else was there but the kid."  
"Perhaps her savior ran off?" Sherlock suggested in his usual blunt tone.  
"No, this is where it gets weirder..." his friend said. "She just... She was glaring at him, and she was very still and focused. And her nose was bleeding but she hasn't been hit. Sherlock, I know that this sounds insane but... I think there's a chance that she threw the guy. Somehow."  
The consulting detective sighed, rolling his eyes.   
"John, do you see this girl?" he asked. "She's barely got any muscle, how could she have done it?"  
"I have no idea, but somehow she did it," John said. "I looked in the alley immediately after I saw the guy get attacked and there was no one there except her."  
"And then she passed out?"  
"Well, I asked her if she was alright, and then she said she was hungry. She sounded really weak, and then she just collapsed. I need to get some food ready for her for when she wakes up."  
Before Sherlock could ask anything else, John had rushed off into the kitchen to try and find something suitable for their guest to eat.  
In the meantime, Sherlock simply observed the girl curiously, only snapping out of his deductions when she turned over to look at him.  
"Ah, good, you're awake," he said, but got no response. She appeared to be confused, and slightly anxious; it seemed like she was trying to figure out whether Sherlock was a threat or not, which gave the detective more information on the child's situation.  
"You've come a long way, then?" he asked, though he was sure of the answer. He paused to allow a response, but when he didn't get one, he just continued speaking.  
"Your shirt is rather dirty, as are you, implying you haven't bathed in quite some time," he said. "Also, your feet are especially dirty and have quite a few bruises and scrapes; so you've been walking. A lot. Mostly through dirt and grass so you haven't been in the city for very long..."  
As Sherlock voiced his deductions, (or the first few, rather,) John came in with a plate containing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a glass of water. He would have gotten her some milk but, of course, they were out.  
"Sherlock," he said in a slightly exasperated tone. Sherlock got the message; save the deductions for later.   
Upon seeing the PB&J, the girl sat up. John handed her the plate.  
"It's not much, but--" he began, but paused when he saw how eagerly she began devouring the sandwich. In a way it was heartbreaking; how long had it been since she'd eaten? He and Sherlock exchanged glances before they both looked back at their guest, who seemed to just start noticing that she was being stared at. She began chewing slowly, looking from one man to the other.   
"Um... My name is John. John Watson," John introduced himself. "And this is--"  
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock interrupted, holding out his hand for her to shake. She glanced at his hand uncertainly, apparently not sure of what to do. Or perhaps too nervous to shake his hand. John noticed a look of interest on Sherlock's face rather than offense, and he simply withdrew his hand and began pacing thoughtfully.  
"Er... Anyway," John said quickly, shaking his head a little before looking at the girl again. "What's your name?"  
There was no verbal response. Instead, the child just stared at him, then glanced down thoughtfully. After a second, she held out her left arm. John raised a brow, and Sherlock paused to see what exactly was happening.   
There was a tattoo on the girl's arm:  **011**.  
"'Eleven'?" John asked, looking from the tattoo back up to the pair of dark brown eyes that were looking at him intently. She nodded a little, and pointed to herself.  
"That's your name?" the doctor questioned further, getting another nod in response. His brow furrowed in concern, and he looked up at Sherlock, only to find the detective's eyes were full of fascination. Which wasn't surprising, honestly.  
"Interesting..." Sherlock murmured, stepping back and looking up thoughtfully.  
"Where do you live?" John asked.  
"Did," Sherlock corrected.  
"What?"  
"Where  _did_ she live," the taller man elaborated. "Clearly she's a runaway."  
John felt that Sherlock was being a bit too blunt but, once again, he wasn't surprised by this behavior.  
"Alright... Where did you live?" John questioned. Eleven seemed hesitant to answer.  
"... Bad place," she spoke, her voice soft and slightly hoarse. Sherlock looked over as she spoke for the first time, and he and John looked at one another. The doctor looked concerned, and, if his eyes weren't deceiving him, he saw a bit of concern on the detective's usually blank face as well.  
"Were you hurt?" Sherlock asked, getting a nod in response from Eleven.   
"Jesus..." John muttered, before speaking clearly. "Well, my friend and I won't let them hurt you, okay?"  
"... 'Friend'?" Eleven asked, looking confused.  
"Erm, yes," John said. "Sherlock. He's my friend."  
"What's... 'Friend'?" the girl clarified her question.   
This situation was getting stranger. She didn't know what a friend was? It was starting to sound like the "bad place" she mentioned was even worse than John had pictured.   
"Um... Well, a friend is..." John paused, then continued. "A friend is a person who you care about, and enjoy being around... Most of the time. And it's someone who you trust."  
Eleven listened carefully, seeming to store this new word away in her mind and nodding to show she understood.  
"The man who attacked you..." Sherlock began, stepping back over to the couch. "Who threw him across the road?"  
After a few seconds, Eleven pointed at herself.  
"You did?" Sherlock asked, not sounding very convinced. She nodded.  
"How?" John asked. Eleven started to lift her hand again, hesitated, and then pointed at her head.  
"With your mind?" Sherlock asked, once again, not sounding convinced. He received another nod in response.   
If he hadn't witnessed the scene, John would have immediately dismissed this as a lie, or he would have assumed the girl was imagining things. But, despite the fact that it sounded utterly ridiculous, it would make sense. It would explain the sudden nosebleed and the heavy wave of exhaustion... Or at least he figured.  
_"Didn't really study the side effects of telekinesis back in college,"_ John thought jokingly.  
"Um... Sherlock can I talk to you for a second?" he asked, gesturing for Sherlock to follow him into the hallway. The detective obliged, and Eleven watched them go before continuing to eat her sandwich.  
"Don't ask me if it's a possibility that she's telling the truth," Sherlock said flatly.  
"Listen, I know that it's ridiculous, and  _highly_ unlikely, but--"  
"John, remember: once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. It is improbable that a person suddenly showed up in the alleyway, tossed the man out, and then ran off without you even catching a glimpse of them. But the ability to move things with one's mind is impossible."  
John sighed, figuring that Sherlock was right. His mind told him that was the case. But something in his gut told him that there was more to this than they realized.  
Sherlock, meanwhile, had made the silent decision to prove to his friend that this girl had no superpowers, because something in the doctor's expression revealed that he, for some reason, wasn't quite convinced.  
The pair made their way back into the living room, where Eleven was drinking her glass of water. There were a few seconds of awkward silence before Sherlock spoke.  
"Well, John, I don't see how we'll be able to care for the girl," he stated. "I'll call the police, they can handle this situation."  
John was stunned. He knew that, legally, it was probably the best thing but that would make the chances of the girl being sent back to the "bad place" even greater. Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and began to make the phone call... Or at least, give the illusion that he was doing so. He had no intention of actually calling the police, but if Eleven had any powers at all, she'd use them on Sherlock to keep him from making the call. He had the scene planned out in his head: he makes the fake call, Eleven does nothing but plead for him not to, and then he reveals that it was an act. Simple. Then maybe this sudden weird imagination John had would be gone.  
But it didn't go as Sherlock planned.  
As he lifted the phone to his ear, John was about to say something... But he stopped when he saw what Eleven was doing. The girl had narrowed her eyes into a concentrated, angry glare, focused on Sherlock's cell phone. Suddenly, a magnetic-like force tore the phone from Sherlock's hand, and it was thrown across the room, hitting the wall. Both men were frozen in shock for a few seconds, and the detective slowly looked at Eleven.  
" _No_ ," she said in a serious, angered tone.  
Blood began to run down from her nostril.  
Despite being stunned, John had more of a feeling of satisfaction at being the one who was right for once. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was still frozen.  
"... Well," the shorter man spoke, "she wasn't lying, was she?"


	3. Chapter 3

Eleven looked from Sherlock to John. The taller man was paler than he naturally was, and his shorter companion was rather shocked, but not quite as much. He looked towards Sherlock, seemingly waiting for a response to his comment, but he didn't receive one. So he looked towards the girl.  
She looked weak again. She lifted up her arm and wiped the blood off of her upper lip with her wrist, her eyelids heavy. Both men figured that her powers must drain her energy quickly.  
"Here," John said, handing her the half-full glass of water. Even though he was still quite a bit shaken, he managed to maintain his composure; even if this child could do things he previously thought only existed in fiction, she was still a child. A human being. And she was unwell. So his main priority for the moment was to try and nurse her back to health, and trying to figure out more about her powers could wait.   
Eleven took the glass with a slightly shaky hand and began sipping the water. Although she looked exhausted, she still looked rather upset; and John didn't blame her at all. What was wrong with Sherlock? He knew that the detective was rather apathetic most of the time, but there was no way he'd immediately put a child in a situation where they'd be sent back to an abusive home, right? Unless it was some sort of act...  
"Here, you rest a bit, yeah? I'm going to talk to Sherlock for a second," John said after the girl finished drinking her water. He turned to his friend, who was now standing on the other side of the room, inspecting his phone.  
"Just what the hell were you doing?" the doctor asked in a hushed tone after approaching Sherlock.  
"Hm... Screen's cracked," Sherlock said, his voice sounding almost like it typically did, but with a hint of anxiety. He was, once again, trying to hide his emotions, but this time he was failing.  
"Sherlock," John said sternly. "Answer me. What were you trying to do?"  
After a few seconds, Sherlock responded.  
"May I see you in the kitchen for a moment?"  
John sighed as the detective turned on his heel dramatically and rushed off to the other room.   
"I'll bring you some more food," he said to Eleven, whose expression had softened when she looked at John. She nodded a little, and the man followed his companion into the kitchen.  
"Care to give me an answer now?" he asked. "Look, I know that calling the police sounds like it would be the right thing, technically speaking, but surely you know that--"  
"Why are you lingering on that, John, when we've just discovered that someone has the ability to move objects with their mind alone?" Sherlock questioned, looking angry and, if John wasn't mistaken, scared.  
"Listen, I understand that this is shocking, I'm just as surprised as you are, but this is a child we're talking about, special ability or not," John said. "And--"  
"Oh, for God's sake, John, I wasn't actually going to call the police, alright?" Sherlock sounded rather frustrated now. "Wasn't it obvious? I was trying to prove that she didn't have 'magic powers'. If she didn't have them, she wouldn't have used them to stop me from calling the police. That's what I had planned but, well, things went a bit differently."

 

  
John sounded a bit angry. Sherlock sounded... Well, upset. Eleven couldn't make out all of what they were saying, since they mostly spoke in hushed tones, but based on the few words she could make out, it sounded like John was being defensive of her. Which she appreciated. It was the only thing keeping her from running away; that reassuring feeling of having someone who had a desire to keep her safe.   
It was a feeling that was mostly foreign to her. She'd longed to have that feeling with Papa... Eleven had done her best for a long time to try and please him, and in return she would have those brief moments where she felt like he genuinely cared about her. Where he praised her in a proud, fatherly tone. At a younger age, she believed it was legitimate; then, later on in her life, she wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe it so badly.   
But it was fake. All of it. Papa only saw her as an "extraordinary" specimen that he couldn't wait to run another experiment on. That became crystal clear to her. That was partly why she left.  
As the girl hugged her knees up to her chest, pushing her large T-shirt over her legs to try and block out the faint chill she was beginning to feel, the voices in the kitchen vanished, replaced by occasional sounds of movement, like utensils clanking together. Then she spotted John returning, holding a plate of apple slices.  
"Once again, it's not much," the man said apologetically. "I haven't been grocery shopping much lately. But tomorrow I'll make sure you get a proper meal."  
Eleven looked up at her friend (she'd determined that, based on the definition she'd received earlier, John was a friend) and took the plate he was offering her, nodding a little as a way of saying "Thank you" without having to speak. She began eating the apple quickly, as John sat in his armchair.

  
The man had a bit of a problem.   
He knew what he wasn't going to do, but he was unsure about what he was going to do. What action he was going to take for the strange child who had spontaneously arrived in his life.   
What he certainly was not going to do was send the girl home, and he also wasn't going to send her back out on the streets. Especially not after getting a painful reminder of just how many awful people there were when he heard that ruckus in the alleyway. Sure, Eleven could clearly fend off her attackers, but for how long? She got weak after using her powers ("Powers... Bloody POWERS... My God, we must be losing our minds..." John thought) just a little bit, and she had passed out after sending that bastard flying across the road.  
What if she got attacked by a group? Or what if her parents (or whoever she was running from) found her?   
But how could she stay here? What would they tell Mrs. Hudson? What if a client came over and saw her? Word would spread and people would start rumors and it would overall just be a mess; and it could lead the people from the 'bad place' right to her.  
No. That wouldn't happen. John wouldn't let it happen, and he was pretty sure that Sherlock wouldn't either, after he'd gotten over his panic that he was failing at covering up. They couldn't tell Mrs. Hudson about the girl's powers; not any time soon, anyway. But clients...  
"Eleven?" John spoke. Eleven looked up from her plate, chewing a piece of apple.  
"Um... You can stay here," he said, not entirely sure how to go about this. "If you want to, that is. If not, I can find another safe place for you to go."  
At least, he thought he could. He wasn't sure who he'd ask to care for her. Stamford? Lestrade? Mycroft? John laughed internally at the last one.  
"... I want to," Eleven said after glancing down in a thoughtful sort of way. "I'll... Stay."  
John nodded.  
"Well, you're welcome to," he assured her. "You can sleep in my room, and I'll sleep on the couch, okay?"  
"... Okay," Eleven replied quietly. John opened his mouth to speak again, but he was cut off as Sherlock's footsteps rushed to the doorway.  
"Going to my Mind Palace, keep it down, thanks," the detective spoke at a rapid pace before striding off down the hallway. John glanced away, rolling his eyes, before looking back at Eleven, who was glaring through the wall in Sherlock's general direction.  
"Just so you know," John began, "Sherlock wasn't going to call the police."  
Eleven's expression shifted from an angry one to a confused one as she looked back at John.   
"He just..." the man paused briefly, sighing. "He didn't believe you had powers. Honestly, I was having trouble believing it myself. Wouldn't have if I hadn't seen you use them. And Sherlock just wanted to prove himself to be right.  
He figured if you had powers, you would use them to stop him from putting you in danger. He didn't expect you to. But, well... You did."  
Eleven stared at him as he explained.  
"So he... Was lying?" she asked.   
"Um... Yes, I suppose he was," John replied. "But trust me, he has no intention of hurting you or sending you back to wherever you were being hurt."  
The child didn't seem completely convinced that she could trust Sherlock yet; but she nodded her head. Well, it was a start, at least.  
  
  
So Sherlock had lied to her? He had scared her to prove a point, or attempt to?  
That didn't seem very nice, Eleven figured... But still, he hadn't been intending to actually call the police, so that was nice. She wasn't too sure how to feel about Sherlock yet; and, quite frankly, she was much too tired to try and figure that out. Even though she'd been unconscious for a little bit, she still felt weary and desperately wanted to get some sleep. Actual sleep.  
John seemed to notice her desire for that as she yawned after finishing her last apple slice.  
"Here, I'll show you where you can sleep," he said, getting up from his armchair. "Do you want to get a bath before that or?"  
Eleven glanced down at herself. She  _was_ rather dirty, and now that she had had time to notice it, she was rather uncomfortable. Could she stay up long enough to get a bath? Probably.   
"Yes," she answered, standing up as well. John nodded, leading her to the bathroom.  
"I'll go grab you a change of clothes, yeah?" he offered. She nodded, eager to put anything else on. The man briefly vanished into another room that Eleven assumed was his bedroom, and he returned with a rather large nightshirt.  
"It's all I could find," he said, handing it to her. He showed her where the towels and washcloths were, and filled up the bathtub for her.  
"Alright, lemme give you some privacy," he said, turning and stepping out, starting to close the door behind him. Eleven felt a surge of anxiety rush through her, and she immediately grabbed onto the doorknob. John turned and looked at her, raising a brow questioningly.  
"Open," Eleven said.  
"... Alright," John answered, nodding. He pulled the door so that it was only open a bit.  
"Is this good?" he asked.  
"Yes," Eleven replied with a nod. John smiled a little, nodding back.  
"Well, take your time; when you're done I'll show you where you can sleep, alright?" Eleven nodded once more.  
The girl despised small, enclosed spaces; they brought back painful memories of her punishments at the lab. The bathroom still felt small, but it was open a bit; John didn't seem upset by her request to have it open, so that was good. It was another thing she added to her mental list of "Reasons Why John is My Friend." 

  
After leaving the bathroom, John paused at Sherlock's bedroom door, listening. Sure enough, silence. He was probably still in his "Mind Palace," most likely trying to find a rational explanation of what had occurred in the living room. One that didn't include "magic powers." John understood, of course, but what other explanation could there be? Sighing, the retired doctor headed back towards his room. He was going to sleep on the couch and let Eleven stay in his room for a while, until they could figure out some other arrangement. Until then, he wouldn't mind sleeping in the living room. He wasn't about to make the girl have to sleep on the couch after what she'd been through.  
He entered his room and began tidying up a bit; as he was straightening out his bedspread, he paused, remembering something. Opening the side table drawer, he took out his gun and put it in his back pocket. He wasn't afraid of Eleven using it, he just liked having it near him; plus, what if the people who had hurt Eleven somehow discovered where she was? They'd run into John first, and he'd be ready for them.  
The man put his gun in his back pocket and walked back into the living room, placing it on the table by the couch.   
The flat was completely silent, so when the door to the bathroom creaked open a few moments later, John heard it loud and clear. He got up from his armchair, where he had been taking a moment to reevaluate just what the hell had been going on these past few hours, and headed to the bathroom.  
Eleven stood in the doorway, her shaved hair slightly damp. The nightshirt was, of course, too big, but it was much cleaner than the T-shirt had been. And so was Eleven. She looked a lot healthier, despite the fact that she was still rather thin.  
"Follow me," John said, leading her to his room. "You can sleep in here tonight. I'll be in the living room."  
  
  
Eleven examined the room, her eyes lingering on the bed.  
"Big," she commented in a soft tone. John smiled a little.  
"Yeah, I suppose so," he replied. "Now, you get some rest, and if you need anything just yell for me, okay?"  
"Okay," Eleven said. She looked up at him for a moment, a look in her eyes that was full of curiosity but also gratefulness that she couldn't seem to express with words. Then her eyes turned to the bed, which she climbed onto quickly. She got under the covers, lying down as John left the room, flipping the light switch. The room was mostly dark now, save for the light in the hallway.  
"Op--" Eleven started, but she noticed that John, as he was shutting the door, had already left it open a little less than halfway, allowing for a decent amount of light to come in. The girl felt relieved, and managed a small smile that faded slowly as she drifted off into a deep, deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are gonna be getting pretty interesting soon! (I hope, anyway, haha.)  
> ALSO sorry if there are any typos I missed in this; I'm pretty sleepy while I'm writing this so I apologize lol  
> Anywayyy, hope y'all enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

Shortly after giving a quick request (which sounded more like an order) for John and the strange new guest to be quiet, Sherlock sat in the center of his bed, his legs criss-crossed and his fingertips against his chin as his hands formed a steeple-like shape.  
The detective stared straight ahead, taking a slow, deep breath; he didn't want to allow himself to give in to this shock. He had two options: One, find a rational explanation for what he had witnessed the girl do; and two... Come to accept the fact that it was indeed possible for a human being to move objects using their mind alone. Both sounded equally difficult... Well, the latter was probably harder, at least on an emotional standpoint. Sherlock felt secure in his view of the world, but when something came along to shatter that view... Needless to say, he was a bit distressed.  
Managing to calm himself enough to keep his focus in one place, Sherlock's eyelids draped over his icy blue eyes, and he entered his Mind Palace.  
  
 _When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was surrounded by darkness, the only other figure being a still image of Eleven that he had thought up. He analyzed the girl, pacing back and forth._  
 _"Shaved hair, a tattoo on her arm... A subject number," the man murmured. He wasn't getting any new information, really; he had deduced this girl already. If she was a test subject, then... Well, if she had powers, it would explain why._  
 _But how... HOW could this be possible? Everything was pointing to it being possible. There was no sign that he and his friend had somehow been drugged and were hallucinating. There was, simply, no other explanation..._

Sherlock inhaled sharply as he opened his eyes. He had spent more time in his Mind Palace, trying his hardest to find the nonexistent alternative explanation. He had failed. And now he found that his heart was beginning to pound in fear again.   
For so long, he thought he'd had everything figured out. And now that he knew telekinesis was real, what else existed out there? Were there others with powers? Alternate dimensions? Supernatural monsters?   
"Oh, bloody hell, stop being ridiculous..." Sherlock muttered to himself in a scolding tone, vigorously rubbing his hands through his hair. "This... This is..."  
The detective paused.  
"On the one hand, this is, admittedly, rather shocking but on the other hand it's..." Sherlock's voice trailed off. "Amazing."

 

John wasn't sure exactly when he fell asleep, but it felt like he had only shut his eyes for two seconds later on that night, and then opened them to find it was morning. Opening them to find a rather perplexed looking Mrs. Hudson standing by the couch.  
"John? Why are you sleeping on the couch?" she asked, worry in her tone. The man sat up, sighing slightly as he did so. He had been hoping that he wouldn't have to attempt to answer this question so soon, but deep down he knew that there was no avoiding it. Mrs. Hudson came by almost every morning, there was no way he could have dodged this situation.  
"Um... Well, something rather odd happened last night," he began. "I was out for a walk, and I saw a man attacking a little girl in an alleyway. I came over, and the man um... Ran off, and the girl was very weak and looked like she hadn't eaten or bathed in days, so I brought her back here to care for her."  
"Oh, dear..." Mrs. Hudson said, sounding even more worried. "The poor thing... And she's sleeping in your room right now, then?"  
"Yes," John answered. "She was in a dangerous situation and she ran away. We can't let it get out that she's staying here, alright? This conversation doesn't leave this room."  
"Of course," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I'm here to help in any way I can. You know, I think I'll go ahead and make her some waffles."  
John couldn't help but smile; he was grateful that the landlady was so eager to not only help, but to keep the girl's presence a secret to the outside world. He felt slightly bad about not telling her the whole truth, but he knew that the truth was too bizarre to tell right now.  
Suddenly, the landlady paused and turned back to face John.  
"What's her name?" she asked.  
"Oh, um, Eleanor," John answered, thinking fast.  
Mrs. Hudson nodded, walking away. John relaxed; he hoped that Eleven would catch on to her fake name quickly.  
Not long after Mrs. Hudson entered the kitchen, Sherlock walked into the living room, still wearing his pajamas.  
"Morning," he said casually, heading over to his armchair and sitting down, reaching for the cup of tea that the landlady had placed there earlier. "Sleep well?"  
"Well, you've certainly calmed down," John replied in a hushed tone, glancing towards the kitchen to make sure that Mrs. Hudson wasn't standing in the doorway before looking back at his friend. "And yes, I slept fine."  
"I take it our friend is still asleep?" Sherlock asked, taking a sip of his drink.  
"Yep. Sound asleep."  
"Well, hopefully she wakes up soon, I need to ask her some things."  
"Sherlock, don't bombard her; let her have some time to recover, she's clearly been under a lot of stress."  
"I won't bombard her, John, you know I only need a bit of information to work on." (John rolled his eyes at this; of course Sherlock was being a show-off.) "I have an idea of where she came from, but I want to be completely sure."  
"Where do you think she came from?"  
Sherlock placed his teacup down.  
"A lab," he replied. "Baskerville, specifically."  
John looked at him with a brow raised in interest, which was a silent request for him to continue.  
"Based on the state she was in, she had been walking for quite some time, and mostly in a slightly more rural area," Sherlock answered. "And of course, her appearance points to her being a test subject. Shaved head, subject number on her arm... And her abilities. Of course they'd be running tests on her."  
"What makes you think it's Baskerville?" John asked.  
"It's about the right distance away, and, of course, they have a lab," Sherlock answered with a shrug. "I just need to be sure before I continue my research. It could be risky. Plus I'd have to go through the trouble of posing as Mycroft to get in..."  
John had heard various rumors about Baskerville in the past; mostly just in passing. Stuff about weird experiments being done there, but nobody knew if it was true or not. If Sherlock was right, ("Which he probably is," John thought,) then that would confirm that some very bad things were being done at that place. The thought of that poor child being stuck there for her whole life being treated as nothing more than a lab specimen sickened him.   
He had become attached to the girl rather quickly. Perhaps it was because she was dangerous, and John seemed to befriend potentially dangerous people. Or perhaps it was because he related to her; he had been through trauma himself, and he knew how painful it was. Or perhaps it was some fatherly nature he had been unaware of until now.   
Or maybe it was all of the above.  
  


Eleven awoke from a (thankfully) dreamless slumber to a sweet smell she didn't recognize, but that made her mouth water. She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning; she scanned over the room once again, gazing at the sunlight streaming through the window. At the dust particles that were now visible through the light. It was a simple sight for most, but for a girl who had been mostly hidden from sunlight all her life, it was a new, beautiful thing.   
The child crawled out of bed and made her way out of the room, following the scent to the kitchen, where she stopped in the doorway. An older lady was standing in the kitchen, preparing food. She was so caught up in what she was doing that she didn't notice the small figure in the entrance, but she soon turned and looked at her, jumping slightly.  
"Oh!" she exclaimed, startled and ending up startling Eleven as well. "I'm sorry, dear, you just surprised me. You must be the girl John told me about. How did you sleep, dear?"  
The woman spoke in a kind, gentle tone that Eleven was especially unfamiliar with, but that stirred her heart towards an immediate liking of the lady.   
"... Good," Eleven replied.  
"My name is Mrs. Hudson, I'm Sherlock and John's landlady," the woman introduced herself. "I'm making you some waffles! I figured you would need them, John said you've had a long journey."  
Eleven was a bit nervous; what if John had told her about the powers she herself possessed? No, surely he wouldn't have unless this woman would definitely keep it a secret, right?  
Her thoughts were interrupted when Mrs. Hudson lifted the top off of a cooking device Eleven didn't recognize (but she would later learn was a waffle iron) and revealed what Eleven assumed was a 'waffle'. It looked sort of like a pancake, but... Better somehow. Eleven's stomach rumbled, and Mrs. Hudson quickly placed the treat on a plate for her, drizzling on some syrup and putting it on the table.  
"I apologize about the mess here," Mrs. Hudson said. "Sherlock just can't seem to clean up after himself. He expects me to do it, but I'm not his housekeeper."  
Eleven sat down at the table, briefly examining the science equipment that was spread across it, before moving her attention to her food, which she hesitantly tried using the fork that was resting beside her plate. Her eyes lit up at the taste, and she began eating it quickly.  
As she ate, John entered the room.  
"Good morning," he said with a friendly smile. "Sorry, I would have come in sooner but Sherlock was telling me something."  
Had Sherlock been talking? Eleven hadn't heard it, but perhaps she'd just been so mesmerized by the scent of waffles that she hadn't cared enough to listen.  
"You like it, then, Eleanor?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a smile. "I think I'll make some for Sherlock and John as well."  
She was back to making breakfast before she could notice the look of confusion on Eleven's face. Eleanor? Was that what she thought her name was? Had John told her that? Directing her attention to John, he nodded at her, seeming to confirm her silent suspicion.   
Eleanor... So that's what her pretend name was. She supposed it was safer that way.   
"How did you sleep?" John asked, sitting across from her.  
"Good," Eleven answered, food in her mouth. "Did... You sleep good?"  
"Yes, I did," John replied, smiling.   
"Morning," a deep voice spoke from the doorway. Eleven looked over to find Sherlock standing there, looking back at her. She had a rather suspicious feeling about him still, but she nodded in acknowledgement before turning back to her waffle, continuing to eat.  
"Listen, um... I'm sorry," Sherlock said, causing Eleven to pause with her fork halfway to her mouth. She lowered her fork back down to her plate, looking back at the tall man. John was looking at him as well, but he looked rather surprised. Saying sorry must not be a common occurrence for Sherlock.  
"I know that I scared you, and I apologize for that," he added. "And I want you to know that you are going to be safe here."  
Eleven stared up at him. He had seemed to allow a crack to appear in the cold, uncaring wall he had been keeping up, and was showing that he cared as well. This man was rather unpredictable, but... Well, Eleven didn't dislike his words at all.   
"... Thank you," she said softly, nodding a little. John was still staring at the man, but he now had a smile on his face. Sherlock looked at him and shrugged, as if it wasn't a big deal; putting up that wall again. But Eleven could see past it, and so could John, apparently, because he still had that smile.  
  


After everyone had eaten, John remained in the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson to express "Eleanor's" need for clothes and how he had no idea how to shop for a young girl. Meanwhile, Sherlock and Eleven had gone into the living room, where the latter now stood staring up at the skull on the mantel.  
"Skull?" she asked, pointing at it.  
"Yes," Sherlock replied, sitting in his chair. "I used to talk to it when I was having trouble on a case. I have John for that now."  
"Case?"  
"Oh, yes. I'm a detective."  
"What's a 'detective'?"  
"I solve mysteries. The police come to me when they're stumped on who killed who and who stole what. Of course, sometimes the case they're stumped on is rather dull, but other times it's quite... Thrilling."  
Eleven had diverted her attention to Sherlock, listening carefully. A detective... That sounded interesting. But it made her a little uneasy. What if he found out she had killed people? Surely he'd understand that she had had no choice, but...  
No. She couldn't worry about that. She had no reason to feel guilty; those people deserved it. It was her only chance to escape.  
Sherlock seemed to notice the distant, concerned look in her eyes, because he started to say something with a curious expression, but was cut off as John entered the room.  
"Mrs. Hudson is going out to buy you some more clothes," he said, stopping by Eleven. "Ones that'll fit you better."  
Eleven's thoughts immediately went to a more positive place. Clothes? Clothes of her own that weren't hospital gowns?   
"... A dress?" she asked.  
"Yes, she'll be getting you one," John said, smiling a little. Eleven couldn't help but return that smile; she'd always wanted to wear a dress like the princesses in her fairy tale book. When she was smaller, she used to pretend like her hospital gown was a beautiful, flowing dress; but those make-believe sessions didn't last very long. But now... Now she'd get to wear a dress for real. She knew it probably wouldn't be like the ones in her book, but she didn't care about that.   
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and Sherlock got an annoyed look on his face.  
"I know that knock..." he grumbled.  
"Yeah, and I know that face," John said, seeming a bit worried.   
The door opened, and a man wearing a proper-looking suit and tie stood in the doorway, carrying an umbrella at his side. He looked from John, to Eleven (on whom his eyes lingered,) to Sherlock. He smiled.  
"Hello, brother. I see you have a guest."


	5. Chapter 5

A heavy silence hung over the flat for a few agonizingly long seconds. Eleven wanted to move; to step closer to John, or even Sherlock. But her legs seemed to have turned to stone; while she had immediately trusted Mrs. Hudson, this man didn't give her the same friendly aura. She wasn't sure how to feel about him, and that made her anxious.  
"... Why are you here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.  
"You know, I'm sure," Mycroft answered, placing his umbrella in front of him and resting both of his hands on the handle.  
"Let me guess... Security camera?" the detective questioned.  
"Precisely," his brother replied, smiling smugly. John's eyes narrowed.  
"Mycroft, surely you're not planning to--"  
"Of course I'm not going to reveal her location, John, I'm not a monster," Mycroft interrupted, rolling his eyes, his smile gone. "But I figured that my little brother and his blogger should know what they're getting into."  
Eleven remained silent. From what she gathered, this man must have seen her use her powers through security camera footage. But how? What was Mycroft's occupation? And could she trust him or not?  
"The government was involved with this, then," Sherlock stated. Mycroft didn't answer.  
"So the answer is yes," the younger Holmes said.  
"Yes and no," Mycroft said. "That's unimportant."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"All I can say for now is that I've covered your tracks, mostly," Mycroft said, directing his words to Eleven now. "The security footage has been deleted, so those men shouldn't find out your exact location. But..."  
At this, he turned his attention back to Sherlock and John.  
"They are searching," he said. "And if they discover she's here, they won't hesitate to kill both of you."  
"Can't you do something to stop them?" John asked, clearly way more worried than before.  
"John, despite what my brother may tell you, I am  _not_ the British government, I merely hold a minor position," Mycroft replied. "I will do what I can without revealing to...  _Those_ men what I know. But ultimately this is your responsibility. Keep the girl inside, don't let anyone else see her."  
"For how long?" John questioned.  
"Well, we'll see," Mycroft answered, smiling that strangely smug smile once more before turning around toward the door. "You all take care of yourselves."  
With that, he headed out the door.  
"Wait, Mycroft--" John began, having some more questions apparently. But it was too late; the man had left.  
And Eleven felt way worse than she had before.

So it must be Baskerville. That's what Sherlock thought as he watched his brother exit the flat.  
"Is... Is he serious?" John asked, sounding rather frustrated. "That's all he can do? He can't shut down that whole bloody project, whatever it is?"  
"Not abruptly, at least," Sherlock answered, lost in thought, before suddenly becoming alert again. "Eleven."  
The girl looked towards him. She was clearly scared based on the news she'd just heard, and Sherlock felt a twinge of sympathy. He quickly pushed it aside. What good would pitying the girl do? None. He forced his emotions back into the dark again before he spoke once more.  
"I need to ask you some questions," he said. "I'm going to find out more about the bad people."  
"... To catch them?" Eleven asked.   
"Possibly," Sherlock answered.   
"Don't feel pressured to answer every question," John quickly added. "If you don't want to answer something, you don't have to, okay?"  
Eleven considered it briefly before nodding a bit. Sherlock could tell that having a choice was something she was unfamiliar with; it made that sad feeling stab into his heart once again. He pushed it back again.  
"The place you came from... Was it Baskerville?" Sherlock asked. Eleven tensed as the last word was spoken; that was enough of an answer in itself. But she managed to utter an answer.  
"Yes," she said, her voice sounding weaker.  
"Your... Ability," Sherlock said, still trying to get used to the fact that she possessed a telekinetic power. "Did they give it to you, or have you had it since you were born?"  
"Always," Eleven answered, her eyes lowering their gaze down to the floor.  
"And... What did they make you do?"  
At this question, the room became silent. Eleven couldn't seem to bring herself to answer. John placed a hand on her shoulder comfortingly.  
"It's alright, you don't have to answer," he reassured her, and she nodded.  
"I don't want to answer," she said, seeming to struggle a bit with saying a full sentence. Sherlock nodded. He didn't need to know that right now; it would be useful later though, when he would shut the program down. 

Eleven didn't like answering these questions. It made her feel nervous. Even though he had only asked three, it was taking a toll on her, having to think about that lab. Having to temporarily relive those nightmarish moments. Having to remember Papa, and that... That  _thing_ she saw in the void. She shuddered at the thought of it.  
"Sherlock, I think that's enough, it's upsetting her," John said firmly, noticing the look in Eleven's eyes.  
"... One last thing," Sherlock said. "Do you remember any names from the lab? Were you particularly close with anyone there?"  
The girl chewed on her lower lip anxiously. She didn't want to answer. She didn't want to utter that name; that title.  
But if it would lead the detective closer to catching the bad men...  
"Papa," she answered, clutching at the sleeves of her shirt, which dangled past her fingertips.   
"His name?" Sherlock asked, giving her a serious, concentrated look. Eleven had to take a moment to remember... She had never addressed Papa by his real name, but she had heard some scientists and doctors call him that in the past. She just hadn't really thought about it in a while...  
And then it hit her.  
"Brenner," she said. "Doc... Doctor Brenner."

A couple of hours went by. After answering the name of her apparent father figure, Eleven hadn't spoken another word. John did what he could to distract her. He showed her the television, and she seemed mesmerized by it, but that pained look was still in her eyes, past the amazement at this unfamiliar piece of technology. It caused an ache in John's heart. Although the questions had been few and brief, Sherlock had tried to ask her some more. Tried to ask her what else was done at the lab, if there were other test subjects, etc. But she couldn't answer. She had gotten this distant look in her eyes, and that's when John ordered his friend to stop the interrogation.  
Now, Sherlock was typing away at his laptop, apparently doing research on Baskerville and that bastard, Brenner. John didn't know the man, but based on Eleven's face when she spoke of him, he had evidently done some bad things to her. And so John hated him.  
Sherlock hadn't said a word as he did his research. John wondered if he felt bad for making the girl feel that way; he knew that the detective wanted to catch those people, but he wasn't sure whether Sherlock was doing it to ease his boredom or to actually help Eleven. Perhaps a mix of both. But his deadpan tone had implied he had no sympathy for making the child feel that way, and it was rather infuriating to his flatmate.   
But he saved it. He would deal with lecturing Sherlock later.  
Just then, the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson stepped in carrying a few plastic shopping bags.  
"Hello!" she greeted them cheerily. Eleven perked up, but only slightly, as she looked towards the woman with a curious expression, her eyes landing on the shopping bags. John felt a bit relieved; perhaps this would take the girl's mind off of the previous events.  
"You've got your own clothes now," he said with a reassuring, friendly smile. "Want to go try them on?"  
Mrs. Hudson placed the bags on the coffee table, grinning.  
"I do hope you like them," she said. "If something doesn't fit or it isn't your cuppa, just let me know, okay?"  
"Cuppa?" Eleven asked, confused.  
"Your cup of tea."  
Eleven was still confused. Was there a cup of tea in there? Or was it just another phrase that meant something else?  
"Something you don't like," John explained in a whisper. Eleven nodded a little.  
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," the man said gratefully.  
"Oh, it's no problem at all, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied. "If you need anything else at all, let me know."  
Eleven leaned forward, opening one of the bags and taking out a red jumper, a pair of blue jeans, and a purple T-shirt. Two other bags consisted of clothing of a similar nature, but her eyes especially lit up when she reached in the last bag and pulled out a pink dress with a white collar. She smiled, and John couldn't help but do the same.  
"Thank you," she said to Mrs. Hudson.   
"Oh, you're very welcome, Eleanor," the kind landlady replied with a smile, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a loving squeeze.   
Eleven looked at the dress she still held, and then at John, silently asking for permission.  
"Go ahead and try it on," he said. "You can go in my bedroom for some privacy."  
Eleven quickly got up, rushing off in the direction of John's bedroom, seeming to have forgotten about her brief interrogation. John was glad. The girl deserved to have some peace, some happiness.   
Shortly after Eleven had rushed off, Sherlock finally spoke.  
"John, look at this," he said, pushing back in his chair away from the laptop and allowing some room for John to have a look. The doctor, who had managed to put aside his anger with Sherlock, (for now, anyway; the detective wasn't in the clear yet,) stood up, heading over to the computer.  
A three-year-old article about a project called MK-Ultra was on the screen.  
John read about a project that had been exposed and "shut down." One that had been run by a man named Martin Brenner.  
"That must be it," he said. "So it was originally in America?"  
"Yes," Sherlock said. "It appears that they moved to Baskerville. The British government must have become more appreciative of their 'weapons' than the American one."  
"So Eleven was meant to be some type of weapon?"  
"Exactly."  
"... So now what? We get into Baskerville?"  
"Possibly."  
"And how do you plan on--" John paused when he heard a floorboard creak. He and Sherlock turned around to see Eleven standing in the doorway, wearing the pink dress with a rather uncertain look on her face.  
"Wow," John said with a smile. "That looks pretty on you."  
Based on how Eleven's eyes lit up, both John and Sherlock figured out that the girl wasn't used to compliments, at least not of that nature.

And she wasn't. Eleven had never really felt pretty before. All of the compliments she'd ever gotten had been related to her abilities, not her as a person, or to how she looked. The compliment she received from John made her heart feel warm; it made her feel like... Well, a person. Not an anomaly.  
Sherlock had turned back to his laptop, remaining silent. Eleven decided not to think too much about what he was doing; it might just make her nervous again, and she wanted to savor her happiness for just a bit longer.  


A couple of days went by.  
Eleven was starting to become accustomed to her new routine. She and John were bonding more.   
... And Sherlock had already hit a roadblock in his research.  
He couldn't find anything about any experiments of this nature taking place at Baskerville, not even on the dark web, which had been a hassle to search through and, when it turned out to be a waste of time, had caused Sherlock quite a bit of annoyance. Clearly, Brenner and his team were good at covering their tracks.   
So, Sherlock figured that he would try to get into Baskerville physically... But even that failed. His attempt to schedule a visit using Mycroft's name and information was blocked. Apparently Mycroft had anticipated his move and changed his password. Probably just to annoy him. And it worked. Significantly.

**Why did you change your password? -SH**

**Because it's too soon to be scheduling visits to Baskerville. -MH**

Sherlock groaned, tossing his phone onto the couch beside him and ruffling his hair in frustration.  
"Arsehole..." he muttered. "Oh, well. I'll find another way."  


A few hours later, John gazed down at the table, focused. Eleven sat next to him, doing the same. The two had begun a jigsaw puzzle that John bought the day before, and they were about halfway done with it. At first, John was worried that he'd been unable to find an easier one for the girl, but she was surprisingly quite good at it; most of the pieces had been put together by her.  
"Wow, you're good at this," John said as Eleven added another piece. The girl smiled. The two had been spending quite a bit of time together, since Sherlock insisted he didn't need any help with his research and John had some free time. And John was rather enjoying it. He wasn't accustomed to spending time with children, (except for Sherlock, of course,) but Eleven was nice to be around. Although she didn't talk a lot, she was curious, and a good listener. Her amazement at the world around her was fascinating; simple things were wonderful to her. It was beginning to make John start to appreciate the little things again.  
"We'll have to get more of these, huh?" John asked. Eleven nodded eagerly. The man smiled, adding another piece to the puzzle; Eleven followed shortly after.  
It was peaceful. Quiet. Pleasant...  
And that was when a sudden gunshot shattered the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> I just wanted to say that if this chapter seems rushed at all, it's because Hurricane Florence is passing over where I live. It's not the super bad part, of course, but I wanted to get a chapter published before an inevitable power outage, haha. Anyway, I hope y'all liked it!  
> Also, just wanted to mention that any constructive criticism is completely welcome. I'm wanting to improve my writing, so any tips would be appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

     Both John and Eleven jolted in shock at the sudden, almost-deafening sound. The latter had clearly been thrown into a panic; she was breathing so fast now that she was almost hyperventilating, her eyes had widened, and her face was now pale. She gripped the table so tightly that her knuckles were completely white, and she was tense in a way that further implied that her fight-or-flight response was now active. What seemed like a million scenarios began to play out in John's mind in the half second following the noise; had one of those "bad men" shown up? Or was it one of Sherlock's many enemies? Was Sherlock hurt? What about Mrs. Hudson? Almost every worst-case-scenario flashed through John's head. He quickly stood up, and as he did so, there was another gunshot, ringing out from the living room as the first one had. Eleven jolted again, looking like she was on the verge of tears.   
     John wanted to comfort her, but he had to see what was happening and put a stop to it, whatever it was. As he rushed to the doorway of the living room, his fingers pressing into his ears as the gunshots became more frequent, he quickly got an answer as to what the source of the gunfire was. And he wasn't very pleased about it.   
     "What the HELL are you doing?!" he exclaimed as he stared at his flatmate, who was sprawled out on the couch, lazily holding a pistol that didn't belong to him, and pointing it towards a smiley face on the wall that certainly hadn't been there earlier.  
     "Bored," Sherlock murmured in response, his expression resembling a pouting child.   
     "What?!"   
     "BORED! Bored!" the detective shouted, standing up and firing two more shots at the wall, one with his arm extended outward and the other with it bent around behind his back. John covered his ears once more, his eyes shutting tightly as he flinched at the sounds. In between each shot, he heard soft, fast footsteps rush up beside him. Opening his eyes, he spotted a frightened and confused Eleven standing by his side, looking towards the childish detective with a perplexed yet terrified look in her eyes.  
     "Yeah, well, will you find a less-traumatizing way to work that out?!" John asked in a harsh whisper as he walked up to Sherlock, snatching the pistol from his hand.   
     "I can't get further in my research on Baskerville," Sherlock said, sulking. "And don't even get me started on criminals these days..."  
     "Ah, yes, too bad they haven't been entertaining enough for you," John replied in a sarcastic tone, walking to the dining table and placing the gun inside of a small safe before walking over to Eleven.  
     "It's alright," he said in a soothing tone. "You're safe. There aren't any bad men here, just a drama queen."  
     He added the last part with a small smile, and Eleven, who was beginning to get the color back in her face, tilted her head with her brows furrowed.  
     "Drama queen?" she asked, clearly confused by the term.  
     "Someone who overreacts to situations," John did his best to explain the phrase in a way she would understand. "For example, someone shooting a wall because he's bored."  
     His last comment was accompanied by a raise in the volume of his voice, and a pointed glance toward Sherlock, who was now laid back on the couch.  
     "I see you've written up the taxi driver case," Sherlock stated, in an attempt to change the subject, it seemed. John glanced toward his open laptop. He'd been spending the past few nights writing on his blog, after Eleven fell asleep; he'd been writing about their cases, and about the strange happenings at 221b, but he had avoided writing about Eleven. It just wasn't safe.  
     "Oh, uh, yes," John said with a small nod. Eleven, still chewing on her lower lip and trying to calm herself down, stepped over to the laptop curiously, crouching down in front of it. John watched her; he hadn't really shown her his computer before, but he imagined she'd probably seen those at the lab a few times, as she seemed more focused on the contents displayed on the screen rather than the device itself. His unasked question about her ability to read was answered as he saw her eyes scanning the contents of his blog slowly, taking in the story.  
     " 'A Study In Pink', nice," Sherlock commented.  
     "Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone... There was a lot of pink," John replied. "Did you like it?"  
     "Um... No," Sherlock answered, flipping through a magazine he'd picked up from the coffee table. John raised a brow.  
     "Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."  
     "Flattered?" Sherlock asked, looking towards his flatmate with a glare. Eleven glanced up from the screen, looking from Sherlock to John with a concerned expression. The detective sat up, turning his gaze over to the blog.  
     " 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'," he read a segment of the post. Eleven looked at him, still a bit annoyed by his gun antics, it seemed, and stood back up, smoothing out her dress and walking over to the television. Sherlock didn't seem to notice.  
     "Now, hang on a minute, I didn't mean that in a--" John began to defend himself.  
     "Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a NICE way," Sherlock interrupted, his tone dripping with sarcasm which was quickly replaced with one of agitation. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister, or who's sleeping with who..."  
     "Whether the earth goes around the sun..." John muttered. Sherlock sighed.  
     "Not that again... It's not IMPORTANT," he insisted.  
     "Not important..." John repeated softly, growing more and more exasperated. Well, it seemed like the peaceful day he'd been aiming for wasn't meant to be.

     Eleven tuned out the two men's arguing, choosing instead to find something to watch on television. She didn't watch it very often, as the glare from the screen made her eyes hurt after a while, but she enjoyed it from time to time, especially when she could find a cartoon to watch. And considering that some of the tension from the scare she'd received a few moments ago was lingering, she figured that watching something silly on TV might make her feel better. Might make her instincts finally calm down and realize that there was no danger; that no bad men were here. Just a "drama queen."  
     "It's primary school stuff, HOW can you not know that?" John was asking Sherlock as Eleven found an animated show with a talking dog and a group of teenagers. She tilted her head as she sat in front of the television, half-watching it and half-listening to the conversation between her two new friends; the latter was unintentional, though. She was trying her best to ignore the bickering, as it made her feel unpleasant, but it was hard to ignore arguing between two people who were just a few feet away from you.  
     "Well, if I ever did, I deleted it," Sherlock replied.  
     "Deleted it?"  
     "Listen... This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things there that are useful... REALLY useful." Eleven glanced back and saw that Sherlock was pointing to his head. She looked down thoughtfully before looking back at the TV as the girl in the orange sweater crawled around on the floor, in distress that she'd lost her glasses.  
     "Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that really matters," Sherlock continued. "Do you see?"  
     A few seconds of silence.  
     "... But it's the SOLAR SYSTEM," John exclaimed.  
     "Oh, hell, what does that MATTER?!" Sherlock shouted back. Eleven visibly flinched at that; she didn't like it when people raised their voices, and she wished she could crawl into the television and help the girl search for her glasses.   
     "So we go 'round the sun! If we went 'round the moon, or 'round and 'round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!" the irritated detective continued. "All that matters to me is the work. Without that my brain rots."  
     Sherlock sighed heavily.  
     "Here we are with someone who has brought us, potentially, the most extraordinary case I've ever worked on, and I have to WAIT and WAIT for an opening to continue my research," he said, still sounding irritated but his volume lower than before. "I've hit a roadblock, and it feels like my brain is deteriorating. I can't go on without work, and I especially can't go on when there's such a delay like this. Put THAT on your blog. Or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."  
     The harshness of his tone in that last sentence made Eleven furrow her brow in anger. She looked at Sherlock with a glare, but he was no longer facing her; he had curled up on the couch once more, his back facing her and John. She glanced up towards the doctor with a softer expression; the man was clearly upset. He stood up, walking towards the door.  
     "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.  
     "Out. I need some air," John said, removing his coat from a hook and putting it on as he headed down the stairs. "I'll be back soon, Eleanor. Tomorrow, at the latest."  
     Eleven didn't like that very much, but she remained silent, as she typically did. She noticed he'd used her pretend name. Mrs. Hudson must have come in, Eleven figured. This was confirmed to be correct as the landlady appeared, lightly tapping on the living room door. She smiled as she looked at Eleven.  
     "Hello, Eleanor," she said kindly, lifting up one of the two shopping bags she carried. "I brought you some frozen waffles. Not as good as homemade ones, but I'm sure you'll like them for when I'm too busy to make them for you."  
     Well, that helped to improve Eleven's mood a bit; she was still worried about John, but waffles were always nice. So she stood up, walking quickly to the kitchen.  
     "Have you two had a little domestic?" Mrs. Hudson asked, the question directed towards Sherlock, as she placed the bags onto the messy table. Eleven fished through one of them and pulled out a yellow box with a picture of waffles on it, and the word "Eggo" written on it in big red letters. She briefly pondered what "domestic" meant, but not for long, as she now craved waffles, and her focus shifted onto how to prepare these.  
     "Just pop them in the toaster, like this," Mrs. Hudson said to her, opening the package and taking out a couple of small waffles, putting them in the toaster. Eleven watched carefully. She heard some movement in the living room, implying that Sherlock had finally decided to get up again.  
     "Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there," Mrs. Hudson commented. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."  
     Realizing that the waffles were going to take more than a few seconds to be ready, Eleven turned her attention over to Sherlock, looking at him through the doorway; he stood by the window, gazing out silently.  
     "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," he spoke. "Quiet... Calm... Peaceful. Isn't it HATEFUL?"  
     Eleven gave him a look. She couldn't quite understand how someone wouldn't appreciate a quiet, calm, peaceful day. She'd only had days like that recently, and she loved them.  
     "Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, winking at Eleven as she walked past her with the rest of her shopping bags. The girl smiled; she liked that gesture.  
     "A nice murder, that'll cheer you up," the landlady continued, chuckling slightly.  
     "Can't come too soon," Sherlock replied with a sigh.  
     "Hey! What've you done to my bloody wall?!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. Eleven glanced back towards them.  
     "I'm putting this on your rent, young man," she said as she walked down the stairs. Sherlock and Eleven made eye contact. He was smiling, seemingly a bit proud of the damage he'd caused to the flat. She looked back at the toaster as the waffles popped up...  
     And then the silence was broken by an explosion.

As soon as he was able, Sherlock sat back up, his ears ringing from the magnitude of the sound. He was surrounded by glass from the now-shattered windows, and he avoided that as much as he could as he got himself upright. For a brief second, he felt a bit dazed, but he came to rather quickly, and one thought came to his mind: Eleven. The man scrambled to his feet.  
     "Eleven?!" he called out, barely able to hear his own voice. He rushed into the kitchen and found her sitting against the counter, apparently knocked down from the force of the explosion. Worried, he gently placed his hands on either side of her head and tilted it down to see if she was bleeding, but thankfully she had managed not to hit her head. He released her, and she looked up at him as he knelt in front of her.  
     "Are you alright?!" he shouted. Eyes wide, she nodded. Her entire body was trembling, and seeing her scared like this made Sherlock feel another stab of emotion. He felt awful, seeing her frightened. And now, he felt awful about how he had frightened her earlier with the gunshots.  
     The two of them spent some time recovering and, after a few hours, the ringing in their ears stopped. Eleven had managed to calm back down a bit, though she still seemed apprehensive. Sherlock didn't blame her; it seemed like her day was filled with loud noises that signaled potential danger. Still, she was no longer trembling, and was sitting on the stairs to the second floor of the flat, a half-eaten, slightly-cold Eggo waffle in her hand. He was sitting in his armchair, looking at her. In a way, she... Well, she frightened him. Made him feel nervous. One reason was because she was a child who possessed an ability that he'd previously considered impossible. An ability whose existence shook up his previously solid view of the world.  
     And the other reason? The other reason was that she made him feel emotion. Made him feel a need to protect her. To make sure she was safe and happy. Sherlock always told himself it was dangerous to care too much, but, like John, she made him care. And he'd never considered caring to be an advantage. He'd told himself it was useless, and yet here he was.  
     "What... Happened?" Eleven finally spoke, looking towards him, her mouth full of the waffle she was still eating. Sherlock glanced down, silent.  
     "An explosion," he said. She rolled her eyes.  
     "I know... Why was there an ex-plosion?" she asked, carefully pronouncing the word.   
     "Well, we'll figure that out soon enough, I believe..." Sherlock said with a sigh, looking up at her once more, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.   
     After a few more moments of the silence that had become awkward, he spoke up.  
     "Do you like the violin?" Eleven looked at him, pausing mid-bite and raising a brow.  
     "What's the violin?" she asked.   
     " _A_ violin," he corrected, getting on his feet and grabbing his violin case, opening it up and taking out the instrument. Eleven stood up from her place on the stairs, walking closer and taking another bite of her Eggo. She stared at the floor as she walked, being careful not to step on any of the glass fragments, before stopping and looking at the instrument. She stared at it, fascinated. Sherlock picked up his bow and began gliding it across the strings. For a while, that was how they remained, except Eleven moved over to sit on John's armchair, listening to the beautiful melody. She seemed to calm down completely, entranced by the music, which Sherlock noticed when he briefly glanced toward her on occasion. And somehow, although they were surrounded by the aftermath of an explosion, the place had a peaceful feeling about it. However, Sherlock couldn't help but have a nagging thought at the back of his mind that this was just the calm before the storm.

      _Soon after falling asleep, Eleven found herself surrounded by darkness in ankle-deep water. The void. She looked around, and, thankfully, was able to spot who she'd been searching for: John. She approached him slowly, seeing him sleeping on a couch. She had been comforted by the knowledge that the explosion had been a gas leak, (which Sherlock had explained, in terms she didn't fully understand, meant that it had been an accident,) and hadn't been done by the bad men, but she still couldn't feel safe without knowing that John was alright. That he hadn't been attacked or kidnapped._  
     After seeing him safe, she allowed herself to fall asleep for real...  
     But just before she did, she could have sworn she spotted a tall, familiar figure in the void. One she hadn't been looking for and, therefore, one who should not have been there.

     John groaned as he sat up. He'd been sleeping on the sofa at his current romantic interest's house; it was a bit more comfortable than the one at home, but still, his back was beginning to feel the effects of sleeping on a couch rather than a bed. He sighed a bit; he felt a little bit guilty for ditching Eleven like that, but he knew that if he didn't get out of there he'd end up going off on Sherlock, and something told him that cursing out his friend in front of a timid child wasn't the best idea. Besides, she'd be fine with Sherlock; it wasn't like she needed constant attention, as she had grown used to a routine that she could handle on her own. She knew how to run a bath, and Mrs. Hudson would be there frequently to make her food. She'd be fine, right?  
     "Morning!" Sarah Sawyer said cheerfully as she stepped into the room, wearing a nightgown.   
     "Oh, mor--morning," John said, grimacing a bit at a pain in his neck. He really needed to look into getting a separate bed for Eleven, or at least an air mattress for himself.  
     "See? Told you you should have gone with the lilo," Sarah commented. John briefly considered asking to borrow it, but that would raise questions and he was too tired to come up with an excuse as to why he needed it that didn't include the fact that a runaway test subject had been using his bed.  
     "No, no, no, it's fine," he insisted. "I slept fine. It's very kind of you."  
     "Well, maybe next time I'll let you kip at the end of my bed, you know," Sarah replied with a smile, grabbing the remote and turning the television on.  
     "What about the time after that?" John asked, his eyes fixed on the screen, which was displaying the morning news. Sarah grinned, putting the remote back down.  
     "So, do you want some breakfast?" she asked.  
     "Love some," John replied. He was getting a bit anxious to get home, but, glancing at the clock, he figured Eleven was probably still asleep; she slept late frequently, so he wouldn't have to worry too much about troubling her.  
     "Yeah, well, you'd better make it yourself, 'cause I'm gonna have a shower," Sarah answered, smiling at him as she walked away. John watched her, chuckling softly and shaking his head before looking back at the television. His smile vanished, however, as the screen began to display a destroyed flat on a familiar street. He read the headline at the bottom:  **House destroyed on Baker St.**  
     "Sarah!" he called, already on his feet and rushing to grab his coat. "Sarah! Sorry, I've got to run!"  
     He hadn't waited for a response, already at the front door. Once again, the worst-case-scenarios were flashing through his mind. His heart hammered in fear as he ran out the door. Had those bastards come after Eleven? Had they hurt her? Taken her back? Killed her? And what about Sherlock? Was he okay? The small bit of irritation that he had still felt towards his friend was now gone, replaced with sheer worry. Sure, the man was annoying, but he was John's friend. His BEST friend. And the thought of him being dead... The thought of either (or both) him and Eleven being dead made his blood turn cold.    
     Upon arriving at Baker Street, feeling sick with worry, John ran towards his flat, making his way past a crowd that had gathered around the property.  
     "Excuse me, excuse me, I live here," he repeated as he made his way through the group of people, feeling so anxious that he just wanted to shove past all of them and run to the flat to make sure Sherlock and Eleven were okay. But he forced himself to be as calm as he possibly could be, and, after informing a police officer that the flat just above the destroyed one was his home, he was allowed to pass through. And as soon as he was, he ran as fast as he could up the stairs.  
     "Sherlock?!" he called out, rushing through the doorway and into the living room. There, he saw Sherlock, now dressed and holding his violin. He saw Eleven, who was laying on the couch with her knees up, an open book propped on them; to his surprise, in place of her brown, shaved hair, she now had shoulder-length blond waves of hair. A wig. Something John had, for some reason, never considered buying for her but now realized it was a pretty good idea. And, also to his surprise, he saw Mycroft, sitting in his armchair.  
     "John," Sherlock greeted, clearly annoyed by his brother's presence, as usual.  
     "I saw it on the telly," John said. "Are you two alright?"  
     Eleven's attention had shifted from her book to her returned friend, and she was now looking at him, seemingly relieved that he was back.  
     "Hmm? What?" Sherlock asked, glancing about the glass-covered floor and looking at the boarded-up windows. "Oh, yeah. Fine."  
     "Gas leak," Eleven spoke, sitting up now. Sherlock nodded once.  
     "Apparently," he added, before turning his attention back to his elder brother. "I can't."  
     " 'Can't'?" Mycroft asked in an unconvinced tone.  
     "I don't know if you've noticed, Mycroft, but I'm working on something rather big right now," Sherlock said, casting a quick glance in Eleven's direction. "I can't spare the time."  
     "Don't try to lie to me, brother, I know you haven't been able to get any more information on MK Ultra," Mycroft replied, his hands folded on his lap. John noticed Eleven flinch slightly at the mention of the project, and she went back to reading.  _Nancy Drew_ _and the Hidden Staircase_. John wondered, for a second, where she'd gotten that from, but then he noticed a large box in the hallway that he'd failed to notice before. It was filled with books.   
     "Figured she could use something to keep her entertained while she's in hiding," Mycroft said, apparently noticing that John discovered the box. "You know, something other than... Gunshots to the wall."  
     John was a bit surprised; he hadn't known the elder Holmes brother for very long, but he'd never seemed like the gift-giving type.  
     "I assume the wig is also from you, then?" he asked.   
     "Indeed," Mycroft replied. "While I do advise that she stays in here as much as possible, there may come a time when she needs some fresh air, so I thought a disguise wouldn't hurt."  
      John watched as Eleven used one hand to hold up her book and the other to gently stroke her new wig; she must not be used to having long hair, John figured.  
     "Anyway, Sherlock, this case is of national importance," Mycroft continued, turning his attention back to his younger brother.   
     "How's the diet?" Sherlock asked.   
     " _Fine_ ," Mycroft replied, deciding not to further acknowledge the insult. "Perhaps  _you_ can get through to him, John."  
     "What?" John asked.  
     "I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent," Mycroft stated.   
     "In-trans-i-gent," John heard Eleven murmur, as if she were storing the word in her memory to ask about later.  
     "If you're so keen, why don't  _you_ investigate it?" Sherlock asked, plucking at the violin strings.  
     "No no no no no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time," Mycroft said. "Not with the Korean elections so..."  
     His sentence trailed off. Sherlock looked up at him from his violin, and John looked at him in surprise.  
     "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" Mycroft asked with a dry smile. "Besides, a case like this... It requires legwork."  
     Sherlock seemed even more irritated than before; he glanced at John, who rubbed the back of his neck, still trying to soothe the sore muscle.  
     "How's Sarah, John?" the detective asked. "How was the lilo?"  
     "The sofa, Sherlock," Mycroft corrected. That briefly grabbed Eleven's attention, but she only glanced up for a second before going back to reading her book.  
     "How--? Oh, never mind," John said, sighing and sitting down on the coffee table.  
     "Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became... Pals," Mycroft remarked with a smile. Sherlock gave him a look. He seemed a bit more antsy than before.  
     "What's he like to live with?" Mycroft asked the doctor. "Hellish, I imagine."  
     "I'm never bored," John answered with a small smile.   
     "Of course, especially not with the new arrival, I imagine," Mycroft said. "Never bored... That's good, isn't it?"  
     Sherlock threw him another glare. His older brother stood up, picking up a file from the side table and, after Sherlock silently refused to take it, handing it to John.  
     "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends," he said. John began scanning through the folder; he heard movement behind him and then spotted Eleven out of the corner of his eye, peering over his shoulder to read the file as well.  
     "Jumped in front of a train?" John asked.  
     "Seems the logical assumption," Mycroft replied.  
     "But...?"  
     " 'But'?"  
     "Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Sherlock smirked at his friend's remark.  
     "The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system," Mycroft explained. "The Bruce-Partington Programme, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."  
     John chuckled.  
     "That wasn't very clever," he said. Both Sherlock and Eleven smiled at this, the latter's being smaller.  
     "It's not the only copy," Mycroft stated. "But it  _is_ secret. And missing."  
     " _Top_ secret?" John asked.  
     "Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." At this, Mycroft turned to face his brother. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."  
     "I'd like to see you try," Sherlock replied coldly. "Besides, I'm currently keeping something hidden that is also secret and technically missing. Someone who is much more interesting."  
     Mycroft rolled his eyes before leaning down a bit.  
     "Think it over," he said, before turning to John and shaking his hand. "Goodbye, John."  
     He then turned to Eleven, offering her his hand. She looked up at him and hesitantly took his hand the way she saw John do it, letting him shake her hand briefly.  
     "Goodbye, Eleanor," he said, before smiling at John. "See you  _very_ soon."  
     The man went to grab his coat, and as he did so, Sherlock began playing quick, short, high-pitched notes on his violin, causing Eleven to grimace and John to glance at him in annoyance. Sherlock continued this until Mycroft was out the door and on the stairs.  
     "Why'd you turn him down?" John asked after the front door closed. "You hit a roadblock, I thought you wanted something to keep you occupied in the meantime."  
     "Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock shrugged.  
     "Oh... Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere," John said, crossing his arms. Eleven looked up at him, and he understood the look right away.  
     "It means he's turning down the case just because he and his brother are fighting," he explained softly. Eleven nodded. Sherlock started to defend himself, when he was abruptly cut off by his phone ringing. He placed his bow down and took his phone out of his pocket, answering it.  
     "Sherlock Holmes," he said. After a moment of silence, his face lit up.  
     "Of course, how could I refuse?" he asked, hanging up and placing his violin back in its case. He stood up quickly and rushed towards the door.  
     "Lestrade. I've been summoned," Sherlock said. "Coming?"  
     "If you want me to," John said, standing up to follow his friend.  
     "Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger," the detective replied. But, before they could leave, John was stopped by a hand grasping his arm gently. He turned to see Eleven looking up at him eagerly.  
     "I... I want to come with you," she stated.  
     "Erm... I-I don't think it would be safe--" John began.   
     "It isn't safe here, either, John," Sherlock pointed out from halfway down the stairs. John sighed; he knew Sherlock was right. And he also knew that Eleven could use some fresh air... Besides, surely the "bad men" weren't looking as far as London just yet, were they?   
     "Mycroft is in charge of the security cameras in this area, and in Scotland Yard," Sherlock pointed out when his friend didn't respond for a few seconds. "And he's on our side, which is, for once, fortunate."  
     "... Oh, alright," John sighed, accepting defeat. Eleven's face lit up with excitement, and she quickly put on a pair of expensive-looking black flats that must have also come from Mycroft. That man certainly was confusing; apparently it was a Holmes thing.   
     With that, (and with a pair of John's sunglasses being put on Eleven's face just as an extra precaution,) the trio headed out of the flat.  
       
     

     

     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this took so long, but I got suuuper bad writer's block and bla bla bla, you know how it goes. But I'm back now! I hope you guys like the story so far and continue to do so :D


	7. Chapter 7

     It had been quite some time since Eleven had been inside a vehicle. The first and only other time was when she was being taken in a van to a private airplane, going from a place she remembered as "Indiana" to her current country of residence. She didn't remember the plane ride; she was unconscious for that. Being in what she learned was a "taxi" was different, though. It was smaller, and felt less cold. As they rode, her stomach feeling funny in a strange but not painful sort of way, she found herself staring out the window, looking for nothing in particular. She was just enjoying seeing the crowds, which she got to get a good look at whenever the cab came to a stop. People were interesting, she'd found. So different yet so similar.   
     Eventually, the trio arrived at their destination, and Eleven exited the car along with Sherlock and John. They made their way inside, Eleven taking off her sunglasses based on a command in the form of a gesture from Sherlock, and were greeted by a man with silver hair. His focus was, at first, on Sherlock, and he opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn't escape his throat as his eyes fell onto Eleven.   
     "Hello, Sherlock," the stranger greeted the detective, though his confused stare was still directed towards the girl. "Um... Who--?"  
     "John's niece," Sherlock quickly answered, in his usual tone. "She's staying with us for a while."  
     "Oh, right," the man said, though Eleven wasn't sure he was entirely convinced. His expression shifted to a friendly one, though, and he held out his hand, presumably for her to shake again. How come  _that_ was the greeting everyone went with? Eleven wondered this as she took his hand politely.  
     "Nice to meet you, Ms...?"   
     "Eleanor," John answered for her.  
     "Eleanor," the man finished his sentence before introducing himself. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."  
     "Just call him Lestrade," Sherlock instructed her, leaning down slightly to be more at her level and lowering his tone.  
     "Right... Anyways," Lestrade said, his expression turning serious once again as he began walking. Eleven walked beside John as he and Sherlock followed the inspector.  
     "You like the funny cases, don't you?" he asked. "The surprising ones."  
     He led them through a large office. Eleven gazed about curiously as they walked, occasionally making eye contact with one of the people passing by or typing away at a computer. She spotted someone in a uniform and, as uniforms were associated with the men who had spent so much time hunting her down, she became uncomfortable and moved closer to John.   
     "Obviously," Sherlock responded to Lestrade's question.  
     "You'll love this," the latter said. "That explosion..."  
     They walked past an office as he spoke, and a woman inside it cast a glare in Sherlock's direction, which he promptly returned, but not for long. Her eyes landed on Eleven, and she looked back at Sherlock with an expression of what the girl could only describe to herself as disgust. Eleven decided that she didn't like this woman very much.  
     "Gas leak, yes?" Sherlock asked.  
     "No," Lestrade replied.  
     "No?"  
     "No. Made to  _look_ like one." Now inside of the office that Eleven assumed belonged to Lestrade, they came to a stop.   
     "What?" John asked. Eleven noticed a white envelope lying on the desk, and Sherlock seemed to be focused on it as well. Reading the front of it, Eleven discovered that it was addressed to Sherlock.   
     "Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box," Lestrade said. "A  _very_ strong box, and inside it was this."  
     This new knowledge didn't sit well with Eleven. So the explosion  _hadn't_ been an accident. Someone had set it up and left a letter for Sherlock behind. But who? One of the bad men? Papa? She figured, despite her fears, that it wasn't their doing; this didn't really seem like their style. If they wanted her they'd just sneak into the flat, or barge in, and take her. This was much more elaborate and unnecessary for getting her back to the lab, so chances are it wasn't them. But if not them, then who?  
     "You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked.  
     "It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade pointed out. "We've X-rayed it, it's not booby trapped."  
     "How reassuring," Sherlock said hesitantly as he picked up the envelope, carrying it over to a small lamp. As he did this, Eleven looked up at John. He seemed nervous, but when he looked back at her, he seemed to try and mask it.  
     "You holding up alright?" he asked softly. She nodded.  
     "Yes," she said.  
     "If you want to leave or if you need anything, you can let me know, okay?" Eleven nodded. John didn't have to remind her of that; she knew she could trust him.  
     "Nice stationery," Sherlock said. "Bohemian."  
     "What?" Lestrade asked. At the same time, Eleven looked towards the detective and walked over to him to get a look at the envelope again.  
     "From the Czech Republic," Sherlock elaborated. "No fingerprints?"  
     "No," Lestrade replied. Eleven wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about; she didn't know what the Czech Republic was, nor what Bohemian meant, so she made mental notes to ask John about it later. She wandered away from the detective, looking around the office but not touching anything. Being around Sherlock had definitely given her an interest in detective work, and the Nancy Drew book she was currently in the process of reading had increased it. And, of course, so did her current scenario. She wondered if, one day, she'd be a detective like Sherlock, with an office like this and lots of books. She began daydreaming about this and, as a result, her mind tuned out whatever the men were saying. For a moment, that is.  
     "That's... That's the phone, the pink phone." John's shocked words snapped her out of her trance, and she looked back to see that the envelope had been carefully cut open, and that its contents had consisted of a pink cell phone.  
     "What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked.  
     "Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's meant to look like..." Sherlock paused, seeming to realize something. "The Study in Pink? You read his blog?"  
     "'Course I read his blog! We all do! Do you really not know that the earth goes 'round the sun?" Lestrade happened to ask just as the woman from before stepped in. She scoffed in amusement, though the look she was giving Sherlock wasn't friendly. It felt like she was mocking him, and Eleven didn't like that.  
     "It isn't the same phone," Sherlock said, diverting his attention to the phone again. "This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your BLOG has a far wider readership."  
     He gave John a look like he was accusing him. Eleven didn't like that very much.  
     "It isn't... John's fault," she spoke up, struggling ever so slightly with the sentence but still managing to say it. John seemed to straighten up a bit at that, in a good way, and Sherlock sighed.  
     "No, of course it isn't," he said before looking at the phone once again. He turned it on, and a robotic, female voice said: "You have one new message." Eleven listened as five strange tones began to play from the phone, the first four being short and the last one being extended. She felt confused; what did those mean?  
     "Is that it?" John asked.  
     "No, that's not it," Sherlock answered. He was still scrolling through the phone, and Eleven glanced away thoughtfully. This whole situation felt so odd. She was no stranger to dangerous scenarios, but this one in particular was different from the ones she'd experienced. The ones consisting of men wearing uniforms and carrying guns chasing her through the woods. Of a man attacking her in an alleyway. This one, on the other hand, was, in a way, scarier. The danger was certainly present but not specific yet. Who was behind all of this? What were they planning? What was the point? All of that was unclear, and that made her nervous.

     "What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade asked as he and John looked at the photo that was sent to the iPhone. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"  
     "It's a warning..." Sherlock said, staring off into the distance at nothing in particular, a thoughtful look on his face. John glanced toward Eleven, who was watching with her usual curious, intense expression.  
     "A warning?" she asked before John got the chance to. Sherlock looked at her.  
     "Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that," he explained, looking from her, to John, to Lestrade, and back to her again. "Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again."  
     He looked at the photo once again.  
     "And I've seen this place before," he added, rushing out of the office. John furrowed his brow in concern, following after Sherlock and gently placing his hand on Eleven's back to guide her out, just out of instinct, it seemed.  
     "Hang-- hang on, what's going to happen again?" John asked in concern. Sherlock turned to face him and raised his hands up.  
     " _Boom!_ " he exclaimed. John and Eleven exchanged glances; the girl was clearly a bit distraught, and he hated that they'd had to bring her along to this. She was supposed to have escaped a life of fear; now it was like she had jumped from the frying pan and into the fire. Still, what choice did he have? He couldn't just leave her alone at the flat, especially not after the explosion. No, despite their circumstances, she was safer with them.   
     The three of them, now accompanied by Lestrade, exited the building, hailing a cab. As they left, Eleven put the sunglasses back on. It wasn't as bright outside as it was earlier, and that made John a little uncomfortable. It made her disguise a bit less casual, and he found himself glancing about for anybody who might seem suspicious. Anybody who might be watching them, before they got into the vehicle. Thankfully, everybody was just going about their business, it seemed. Feeling very slightly reassured, John entered the taxi, sitting in the back with Lestrade in the middle and Eleven by the window, the girl once again admiring the city with large, bright eyes as they sped back to Baker Street.   
     When the cab stopped at 221b, after a rather silent ride, they exited the vehicle and headed inside, Eleven right by John's side. Instead of going up the stairs, as usual, they followed Sherlock down the corridor and to the left, finally reaching a door labeled "221c."   
     "Mrs. Hudson!" the consulting detective called, leaning towards the landlady's door. Eleven flinched at the sudden shout, and John gave Sherlock an annoyed look; the latter responded with the closest thing to an apologetic glance that he could manage in Eleven's direction. Mrs. Hudson stepped out a few seconds later, but before she could give one of her usual motherly greetings, Sherlock cut her off.  
     "We need the key to 221c," he said. Mrs. Hudson glanced towards Lestrade before smiling at Sherlock again.  
     "Ooo, gotten yourself a case at last?" she asked.   
     "Yes, finally," Sherlock said, almost murmuring. The kind woman disappeared for a moment into her flat before returning with a set of keys, handing them over to Sherlock.   
     "You're looking very lovely today, Ms. Eleanor," she commented, and John was grateful that she hadn't brought up the fact that Eleven was wearing a wig. It wasn't that he didn't trust Lestrade, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to conjure up a convincing lie about why "Eleanor" needed a wig, at least, he wouldn't be able to quickly enough. So he felt relieved, and happy, after seeing the way Eleven smiled bashfully at the compliment.  
     "You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock? When you first came to see about your flat," Mrs. Hudson spoke as Sherlock unlocked the door. He knelt down slightly, peering at the keyhole carefully.  
     "The door's been opened recently," he stated.  
     "No, can't be," Mrs. Hudson insisted. "That's the only key."  
     Eleven got a thoughtful look in her eyes, and John couldn't help but notice a slight resemblance to Sherlock's "thinking face." It made him smile a bit.  
     "I can't get anyone interested in this flat," Mrs. Hudson continued with a sigh. "It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."  
     As she spoke, Sherlock turned the knob on the door, pulling it open and rushing inside. John walked after him, followed by Lestrade. The former was quick to notice, however, that Eleven had lingered in the hallway.

     "I had a place once when I was first married," Mrs. Hudson was saying as the three men made their way, one by one, down the stairs. "Black mold all up the walls..."  
     She trailed off when the three of them disappeared into 221c. She looked at Eleven and sighed.  
     "Oh, men," she said in an exasperated tone, gesturing towards them, before getting a concerned look on her face. "Are you doing alright, dear? I can understand if going on this investigation with them might be a bit much for you."  
     "I'm alright," Eleven assured her, nodding a little bit.  
     "Well, if you ever feel overwhelmed, feel free to come by my flat at any time," Mrs. Hudson said, gesturing to her door. Eleven nodded once more, and smiled slightly. The way the landlady spoke to her made her heart warm, similar to how she felt when John spoke to her in a caring manner. But with Mrs. Hudson it was special; she supposed it was because she'd never really had a female parental figure before.   
     "Eleanor? Everything alright?" John asked, appearing in the doorway.   
     "Yes," the girl replied as Mrs. Hudson walked off, giving both of them a kind smile beforehand.  
     "Did you want to stay up here with Mrs. Hudson?" John asked. She shook her head.  
     "No," she said. "I want to stay with you."  
     John seemed a bit hesitant again, but he nodded, walking back downstairs, with Eleven following him this time. She couldn't help but feel a bit nervous as they descended; it felt like they were going deep underground, even though she knew that wasn't the case. Plus it smelled funny. That must have been what Mrs. Hudson was talking about. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Eleven saw a room that was empty of any items other than a pair of sneakers placed side-by-side in the middle of the floor. Sherlock was beginning to step towards them as she and John arrived. The latter quickly reached out, getting Sherlock's attention.  
     "He's a bomber, remember," he stated. The detective paused before heading towards the shoes once more, this time at a slower, more-cautious pace.   
     "... Shoes?" Eleven asked John in a whisper, though what she really meant was: 'Why are there shoes?' John seemed to understand, as he replied with a shrug and a shake of his head. Apparently he was just as confused as she was.  
     Just as Sherlock started to crouch down and examine the shoes, the heavy silence was broken by the sound of a cell phone ringing. Both Eleven and Sherlock jumped at the sudden sound, though for different reasons. Removing a glove, Sherlock took the pink phone from his pocket and tapped an icon on it (which Eleven later learned was the "speaker phone" option) before answering it.   
     "... Hello?" Sherlock spoke softly. Eleven stepped closer to John.  
     "He-hello... Sexy..." a woman spoke on the other line. Her voice sounded choked up, and shaky, like she was crying. Like she was terrified. Eleven cast a concerned glance up at John, who glanced from her to Lestrade with a perplexed, worried expression.  
     "Who is this?" Sherlock asked.   
     "I've sent you... A little puzzle," the woman continued. "Just... To say... Hi..."  
     All of this was so confusing and worrying. Why was the lady saying those things? Why was she crying? Was she the one behind all of this? Somehow, Eleven didn't think so, but then that just brought her back to her first question.  
     "Who's talking?" Sherlock asked, a bit more insistent. "Why are you crying?"  
     "I'm... I'm not... Crying..." the voice said. "I'm... Typing... And this... Stupid... Bitch... Is reading it out."  
     "El--" John began in a very soft volume, probably about to suggest that she go to Mrs. Hudson's flat, based on his expression. But he didn't get past the first syllable, as Sherlock quickly held up his finger in a gesture for them to be quiet. However, the woman didn't say anything else, just continued to sob.  
     "The curtain rises..." Sherlock said.  
     "What?" John asked.  
     "Nothing," Sherlock replied, shaking his head a bit.   
     "No, what do you mean?"  
     "I've been expecting this for some time." As he said this, he turned towards them about halfway.  
     "Twelve hours..." the woman began again. "To solve... My puzzle... Sherlock. Or I'm going... To be... So... Naughty."  
     With that, the line went dead, and the temperature in the already-chilly room suddenly felt a thousand times colder to Eleven.

     John's previous conclusion that Eleven would automatically be safer with them was temporarily thrown out the window. After hearing that message, the fatherly instinct that had emerged shortly after Eleven's arrival at 221b showed itself in an obvious form. He told Eleven to stay behind with Mrs. Hudson. Of course, it wasn't just because of the unknown threat of whoever set all of this up; it was also because he wasn't sure that Mycroft had supervision over the security cameras over at St. Bart's. Not to mention the fact that St. Bart's would probably bring back some bad memories for the poor girl. So, he put his foot down and told her to stay at the flat.   
     "She would have been fine, you know," Sherlock murmured from the back seat of the taxi he and John now rode in.  
     "I know, but... Look, it just didn't feel safe, alright?" John sighed. "Besides, it's not appropriate for someone her age to be at crime scenes."  
     "I saw crime scenes at her age," Sherlock pointed out, still not looking at John.  
     "Yeah, well, not every child is you," John retaliated as gently as he could, though he still felt agitated. He had two main concerns: finding out where that crying woman was, and keeping Eleven safe. And the latter didn't seem to have any solid solution. With him, out at cases, she wasn't completely safe. At the flat, just with Mrs. Hudson, she wasn't completely safe, either. It's like no matter where she was there was a looming threat, and John hated that.   
     "And she's not every child," Sherlock stated. John didn't reply; he couldn't exactly argue with that. She  _was_ very unique, in multiple ways. Not just the fact that she could move things with her mind.   
     "... Do you think this is connected to her?" John finally spoke once more, keeping the volume of his voice pretty low.   
     "Not sure yet, but I doubt it," Sherlock replied. He didn't elaborate; John figured it must be because, well, discussing something like this while being driven by a stranger wasn't exactly a good idea. What if he brought it up to his buddies later on and word spread? That wouldn't exactly end well, not just for Eleven, but for either of them. Even if they were speaking quietly the whole time, that chance was still there. Neither of them, apparently, wanted to risk it.  
     It was something else John noticed that implied that Sherlock cared a bit more than he was letting on.

     Eleven sat on the sofa in 221b. Despite the familiar surroundings, and the smell of homemade cookies coming from the kitchen, the girl didn't feel very safe. The odd series of events kept playing in her mind: the explosion, the letter, the shoes, the phone call, the kidnapped woman... None of this made any sense to her yet. Why would someone do this? She had met bad people before, but this was a whole other level. This was... Well, she wasn't entirely sure what to call it.   
     Whoever was behind all of this wasn't speaking for themselves. They were using someone else. Someone they probably planned on killing if Sherlock and John didn't solve the "puzzle" on time. Eleven shifted slightly on the sofa. She was afraid, sure; but not in the "I need to hide" sort of way. In the "There's something bad happening and I need to try and stop it" way. The way that was mixed with a healthy dose of anger.   
     "They've almost cooled off, dear!" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen. Eleven hardly heard her; she was too deep in her thoughts, wondering what she could do.   
     "I've got to go check on some laundry I've got running down at my flat," Mrs. Hudson added, exiting the kitchen and entering the living room. "It'll only take a moment. You could go ahead and help yourself to some cookies, if you'd like."  
     Cookies wouldn't solve her problem, but they wouldn't hurt, either. So she nodded, accepting her offer and rising onto her feet, making her way towards the source of the sweet smell as Mrs. Hudson walked out the door. The next few minutes were calm. Quiet. Just her, alone in the flat, munching away at chocolate chip cookies. She tried not to eat too many, but she was pretty hungry, so it was difficult to restrain herself. Still, she wanted to save some for her friends, so she managed.   
     Then, the silence was broken by a knock. A knock just loud enough for Eleven to hear it. She paused in the middle of chewing, listening.  
     "Oh, hello young man!" Mrs. Hudson's muffled voice made its way into her ears. She couldn't make out what exactly this "young man"'s response was, but what she could tell was that she had never heard this voice before. It was someone new. Someone fairly, well, young, based on his voice; perhaps even someone close to her own age.  
     "I'm afraid they aren't here at the moment," the landlady was saying. Then the boy said something. Based on his tone, he sounded almost desperate about something. Unable to ignore the nagging feeling in her gut, urging her to alleviate her curiosity, Eleven walked over to the door and opened it.  
     "I'm not certain when they'll be back, I'm afraid," Mrs. Hudson said apologetically. "They're off on another case at the moment."  
     "Well... Well, where are they?" the boy asked. "I could try to talk to them there."  
     "I don't think that would be a good idea," Mrs. Hudson replied gently. "Pardon my asking, but do your parents know you're out here?"  
     "I... They... Look, I just really need to talk to Mr. Holmes," the boy insisted. "It's really,  _really_ important, he's the only one who can help."  
     Mrs. Hudson sighed, turning to the side slightly. Eleven was peering out from the doorway, and she managed to get a glimpse of the boy as he shifted his foot stance a bit, as if to get more comfortable. He had pale skin and dark brown hair.  
     "Dear, I'm sorry, but Sherlock doesn't want me to allow clients in when he's not here, especially not lately," Mrs. Hudson said apologetically. Eleven heard a faint sigh come from the boy, and she caught another quick glimpse of him as he walked down the steps. The landlady stared for a moment longer before sighing herself and closing the door, managing to see Eleven peering down from upstairs before the girl could hide.  
     "There was a boy here to see Sherlock," the woman explained, walking up the stairway to Eleven. "He's sitting outside waiting... Poor dear, he seems so worried. Something awful must have happened. And he was there all by himself! No parents or anyone else."  
     Eleven didn't answer. Just glanced down at the floor.  
     "I do wish I could let him in but Sherlock and John have made it quite clear they don't want visitors while they're away," Mrs. Hudson continued. "Well... I'm sure they'll return soon. I'll be getting that laundry done now."  
     With a kind smile, Mrs. Hudson made her way back downstairs and off to her flat. Eleven stood there, waiting, listening... Suddenly she had been overwhelmed with even more intense curiosity. Who was out there? Why was he here? Why did he need help? And... Could she help him? She wondered this as she hesitated in the doorway. And then she, still carrying two cookies in her hand, crept down the stairs and out the door. She peeked out cautiously, and when she turned her head to the left, she spotted a boy (who was, now that she saw him up close, most likely her age or perhaps a little older) sitting miserably on the sidewalk, tossing a small piece of debris left over from the explosion with one hand and catching it in the other. He looked tired, and his clothes were a bit dirty; it looked like he might be a runaway, too. He quickly stopped tossing the small chunk of brick, however, a split second before Eleven shut the door.  
     "Um... Hi," he greeted with a small, forced smile. He was trying to be friendly, it seemed, but was just too tired to be cheerful. Eleven understood. She responded with a small wave. This was followed by some silence, which was rather uncomfortable. Both children just stood/sat there, with Eleven keeping her gaze on the stranger and the stranger glancing to her and away from her repeatedly; like he wanted to say something to her but he wasn't sure how to.  
     Eventually, though, he managed to find his voice.  
     "Do you, um... Do you live with Sherlock?" he asked, raising a brow and gesturing towards the door to 221b. Eleven hesitated before nodding a bit.  
     "Whoa, really?" he asked, his eyes widening a bit; she nodded again. "That's so cool... Um... Are you related to him or...?"  
     "John," she clarified, although it was a lie. "I'm John's... Niece."  
     She briefly struggled to remember what her title was in their pretend world.  
     "Ohhh, yeah, I didn't think Sherlock would be... Y'know... A family man," the boy pointed out. And that was when there was another awkward silence. Neither one of them seemed to know what to say to the other now. So, after a few seconds of nervous hesitation, Eleven walked down the steps and over to where the other child sat. She took one of the cookies into her right hand and held it out to her acquaintance, in an almost robotic manner, as she was still rather unsure of herself in almost everything. The boy seemed surprised.  
     "Oh, uh, thank you," he said with another small smile. One that seemed a little less forced. He took the treat she offered, taking a bite of it and chewing it in silence, gazing at the concrete between his sneakers. Eleven found herself staring at him; he had dark brown eyes, and freckles, she noticed. And in his eyes she saw worry yet determination. Though she couldn't quite find those exact words at the time; all she knew was that his look was familiar, and that the look he had was one of a runaway on a mission.   
     But she didn't ask him about this. She didn't know the right words to use for that. So, instead, she silently sat down beside him, about three feet away, and began eating the other cookie she had brought along with her. Her visitor glanced in her direction briefly before continuing to eat, and that was how they sat for the next few minutes, feeling awkward yet pleasant from the dessert item.  
     "... Eleanor," she suddenly said.   
     "Huh?" the boy asked. He'd been in deep thought, based on how intensely he'd been staring at the ground for the past few minutes. Either that or he was very fascinated by a particular ant that was crawling on a pebble.  
     "My name," she said. "It's... Eleanor."  
     She held out her hand. Was she doing this right? Apparently so, because he took her hand and shook it.  
     "I'm Mike," he said. "Mike Wheeler."  


       
     

       
  
       
     


	8. UPDATE

Hey guys! Author here. Sooooo I'm having a bit of a crisis (that's a slight exaggeration but you get what I mean) with this story. Not that I don't want to continue it, because I do, but I feel like there are some things about the story that I should have done differently. The problem is that I don't wanna redo the whole thing, because I've already done that on a different website (because I'm anxious and indecisive, to be honest with y'all, haha.)   
So in order to get my anxiety to stop bugging me, I figured I'd ask you guys: Do you think that I should redo previous chapters? Or should I keep going with what I've got now? Because if y'all wouldn't mind or would prefer me redoing it, then I'd be happy to; but if y'all are happy with the story as it is, then I'll continue it as it is.  
Anyway, sorry for all the long waits with this fic. Hopefully I'll be updating soon. :D  
-L.L.


	9. UPDATE2

Hey guys! So, this is gonna be the last update where I'm just apologizing again for the delay haha.  I've decided that I'm going to have to redo the story because, 1) I'm unhappy with my writing, and 2) I'm kinda stuck in place when it comes to the story I have now.  That is, I have no idea where to go with it.  So! I'm going to be writing a few chapters just to get myself past that area I keep getting stuck at, and then I'll be posting the story.  Thank you guys so much for the love you've shown this fic, even though I'm super indecisive.  The story is going to be  _basically_ the same, only a few changes so I don't keep getting like "Uhhhh okay now I don't know what the hell to do."  
Also, along with this I'll probably be posting a few smaller fics/oneshots.  They may or may not be crossovers?  Not sure yet but I have a few ideas.

Anyway, thank you guys again!  This story will be back on track sooner than later. 

-L.L. 


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